In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,And towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumblingFitting the clumsy helmets just in time,But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungsBitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.

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In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,And towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumblingFitting the clumsy helmets just in time,But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungsBitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.

I need to talk to the store and tell them I want a different pair of glasses.

This would be less stressful if they didn't have a whoops-the-head-came-off-screw that means the plastic "scabbard" on the arm comes off--not because that's a problem, but because I was in yesterday to get the screw replaced and they told me "oh, no, can't replace the screw, we'd need to take the plastic bit off and that'd break the plastic bit."

It feels distinctly weird to be going in to say "Hey, you were wrong, but I don't want the glasses anyway." I know that technically I'm not really being ungrateful and it's perfectly okay to express dissatisfaction with things I paid for, but... ugh.

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We have begun watching The Knick. I confess I went in mildly suspicious; I remembered vschanoes's mentioning a show set in 19thC New York that had a noticeable lack of working-class women who weren't prostitutes. That was a couple of years ago, and since then I've honestly noticed that that's a fairly common thing with period shows.

How did the first episode open? Close-up of the shoes of the protagonist, past which we can see a couple of prostitutes.

I kinda went in expecting it, so it wasn't surprising and annoying, but it is annoying. (Fortunately my mood is currently exceedingly sturdy, due to a measured application of butter, cream, garlic, and potatoes, so it is not more than annoying.)

Aside from that... well, a handful of the characters have admirable qualities. A couple of them seem to be decent people. I think I shall keep watching for a bit. And yet, I am not quite willing to clear time for it.

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Okay. Nearly ready. Plans for today, relating to travel, are "pack". I need to add one set of clothes, plus something nice for the Hugos. (Probably just a dressier than usual top; there is a certain shrug-and-carry-on[1] freedom to living out of a bag for most of a week.)